Name: Krauka Sukhbataar
Occupation: Head of the Takara Shinja mercenary group
A woman of mixed ancestry and largely unknown origins, what IS known about Krauka is that she joined up with the Takara Shinja as a young orphan, proving her worth as a mercenary in the battlefield before she was old enough to have completed elementary school. Although she had a tendency to give in to a hedonistic bloodlust in the heat of battle, Krauka also possessed a surprising strength and ability to lead, and by the time she was in her early 20’s she had become the head of her organization. Although they had been under contract with the United Asian Commonwealth for an incredibly long time, when Nowel Enquist and Mothgate Industries paid the Takara Shinja for their services she was quick to abandon their long-time employers for the service of their new benefactor. Soon enough she met and became rather fond of Nowel’s young son, Nathan, enjoying the boy’s brilliance and ambition, and by the time Nowell had stepped forward to run his father’s business their relationship had evolved into something quite a bit less than professional, and quite a bit more than simply Freudian. She has undergone extensive cybernetic modification that has allowed her to become nothing short of an elite killing machine, but despite having access to the cosmetic technology that would allow her to reduce the visibility of her scars, she has opted to leave them alone. She considers all of them - especially the massive burn scarring over much of the left side of her body - to be badges of honour left over from the battlefield, and wears them proudly.
==>It wasn’t every day you came to the city, it was a long trek and an almost a pull from the very soul summoned to Trolls that were blind and needed their eyes opened up. Technically speaking, this was your first sermon.
It was a must for any young subjuggulator to give a sermon to the crowds.
To show the depth of your passion to your brothers, sisters and heretics alike and this would be the first of hopefully many should you do well.
If not. It would still be an honor to die by a brother or sister’s hand.
You where ushered up onto a pedestal infront of quite a few Trolls that had either gathered by themselves or been forced to watch it all as you stared over the faces. A few you recognised and a few you found only tantalising in the fact that they made your stomache gurgle in a faint pang of hunger pain. However you brushed it aside and put on your ‘best’ public smile as you addressed them all.
“My brothers, my sisters and my heretical blind friends…what an honor to find myself before you all to speak the words that have molded the blessed of my caste for generations upon generations, with open eyes and pumps full of humor.”
“Today, I speak the words of the greatest stage of all, the Dark Carnival, the stage of the Messiah’s themselves, not all of it you understand, but one of the three rings we find ourselves making our jests and our jokes so heartily within….today….I speak of the first.”
“I speak of the Ring of Rage.”
“This ring, the second to our duality of power the Messiah’s bestow so lovingly upon us in their wills goes hand in hand with sweet and bountiful Mirth, but comes first in the Carnival…for its volatile nature will not allow it to come second or third best to the others…but in those words, even we must find restraint in our rage, my brothers and sisters!”
“It is not enough, to blithely waste our anger upon such pedestrian every day matters, do not waste such rawness and passion upon a stubbed foot nub or wasted meal.”
“But instead, let it fuel you! Let it bubble up and boil to use on wretched sinners and heretics who would dare speak ill of our blessed clarity, who would walk blindly and waste the gifts that the Messiah’s chose so kindly to give them! The rage gives us the energy to fulfill our Mirthful deeds! To bring the most sublime of punclines, the most gripping of jokes to the cosmic comedy that is life itself!”
==>You take a moment to breath from the exhaust of passion as you grin over the crowd.
“Indeed if you must take something from these words today, know that rage reigns over and brings the third ring of our blessed Carnival. Rage is what paints our words to the Messiah’s in bloods that range from rancid to refined! Control your rage so that you may use it when truly needed! Let the passion of your anger bring true and unequal mirth to those who would scoff at the very ground we walk!”
“Do so in the name of the blessed ones! Do so in the name of the Messiahs!”
==>You let your head hang back slightly as a few of the passionate front crowd goers yell and roar, kicking the others into a frenzy as you grin and soak up the noise like you were bathing in it. Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
==> You’re grateful that your visual feed was able to stabilize, even from this great distance, before you missed the sermon. Being on the warfront like this, killing your brothers and sisters every day, has kindled in your indigo veins an especially passionate desire for a good and mirthful sermon or two, and when you checked the list of scheduled speakers you were, frankly, FUCKING ECSTATIC to see your little preacher’s name pop up.
==> And here you are with one earbud in and the other ear left open for any orders to move or kill, and a massive grin on your face from the passion in his vibrantly devout little voice. Ahhh, he’s every bit as gifted as you thought he’d be!
GOOD JOB, YOU P⇶RF⇶CT LITTL⇶ MOTH⇶RFUCKING PR⇶ACH⇶R…
==> You say that mostly to yourself, though, and you save the podcast for some re-listening later. Gotta’ share that shit with Gustav next time he’s nesting in his bodypile.
— fineWeaver [FW] began pestering torentialParashu [TP] at 23:20 —
Lt Colonel Fighting Jack Churchill, aka Mad Jack
- fought throughout WW2 with a longbow and a broadsword
- was also known to bring bagpipes
- he volunteered for the Commandos, not because he knew what they did but “because it sounds dangerous”
- he crawled out of a concentration camp
- about the end of WW2, he commented “If it wasn’t for those damn Yanks, we could have kept the war going another 10 years.”
- atta boy
Namor what are you doing
[[But Minty, this dude sounds more like KRAUKA in personality. XDD]]
Oh dear I got started on something and then I couldn’t stop.
Half-way decent art.
[[HE. IS. P E R F E C T.
Year 1, 9 Sweeps
It had all taken Namor by surprise. The ‘Lion’s Mane’ was all he had expected and more, being roughly five times the size of the last vessel he had served on briefly, having its own sort of miniature fleet escort of cruisers to act as guards. From the outside, it appeared to be similar to a cross of a giant monastery and a battleship, giving it a sort of Gothic era feel to it. The inside continued with the monastery theme, halls being made of dark stone with large arches and statues. The windows were stained glass, but clearly made from something much sturdier than glass. While it definitely was not the norm as far as Alternian Empire ships went, it was the inhabitants that made it strange.
During the rush of introduction and being shown his quarters, he barely had time to actually observe his surroundings. While he did notice that certain troll that he and other inductees passed were dressed almost akin to that of monks, despite being of high blood, he failed to notice them. He first met one at the set time for dinner. Namor had been sleeping when that happened, tucked away in his rather Spartan room. He awoke to a quiet knock at the door, slipping out of the coon in his pyjama bottoms. He opened the door, expecting one of two things: Krauka and her shit eating grin or one of his superiors. Both of which were very tall. However, what he did not expect was the small, white clad hooded figure that looked up to him in an odd silence, not even moving beyond the occasional shift of its head.
Even when looking up at Namor, he could not quite make out the features of the creature, always obscured by darkness. With what seemed to be a nod, the tiny, robed humanoid turned, making a beckoning gesture with its hand. And, for whatever reason, Namor followed. Now with time to think, the Lieutenant actually took time to observe his surroundings, taking in the architectural beauty that was the Lion’s Mane, maintaining its status as a renowned battleship while having such a graceful and ancient interior. He also noticed other small hooded creatures, some seeming to have small wings sprouting from the sides of their hoods, flapping lightly. That flapping alone seemed to allow them to hover.
Namor, being a man who believed that everything had a logical explanation, was just baffled by this. Never before had he seen or heard of things like this. Every other crewman of the ship seemed to just accept that these things walked around and did whatever they did, some of the higher bloods even seemed to have one following them, and holding large tomes open for them while they read. It was just strange.
By the time Namor had snapped out of his confusion at these little waist high creatures, his ‘guide’ seemed to be leading him up a large set of marble stairs. Not once did this creature talk or even turn to look at Namor, just going on.
The creature stopped before a rather humble looking wooden door at the end of the spiral stair case, gesturing for Namor to go ahead. With a rather confused nod, he went to open the door, turning to look at the robed humanoid before entering. It had already begun making its way back down the stairs.
Closing the door behind him, Namor looked to the only inhabitant of the room. Before him was a lowblood, no doubt. He bore robes similar to that of the tiny creatures that seemed to wander the ship amongst the trolls although it lacked the heavy cover for the arms. Instead, the arms were armoured in rather heavy plate, rather archaic symbols. From what little knowledge you had of the old languages, they seemed to tell various battles and victories. The lowblood himself was only a head taller than you, his face showing tales of war in its self, his short hair turning grey on one side, his trimmed goatee having turned completely grey. In his hand was a large, metal, staff, a golden lions head on the end. The trolls deep red eyes seemed to glow with power as he looked to Namor, a paternal smile gracing his weathered face. This room seemed to be the troll’s quarters, it seeming much larger on the inside than it did from the outside. The walls were lined with books, along with various rows. It was a library.
“I never thought I would be meeting you so soon, young Ezara. You look just like him, when we were your age.” Spoke the aging troll, stepping forward. His staff clicked on the ground with each step, small sparks of electricity coming from the base as it made contact. A psychic, Namor observed. The staff must have been his way of channelling the energies. Namor stood his ground, placing his hands behind his back. Lowblood or not, this man was his superior, he assumed. One so old and on such a ship would have been his superior in spirit, anyway.
“I do not understand s-“the young lieutenant was cut off by old troll raising his armoured hand, standing before Namor, smiling still.
“Do not threat, young Ezara.” He moved his hand over to Namor’s shoulder, patting it lightly. “I am Chronicler Gazemind. I was a comrade of your genetic donor.” While Namor was not one to be shocked, this definitely managed to pull it off. . He, honestly, knew very little about him beyond that he used to be a friend of Caeli’s own ancestor. What confused Namor about this though was the fact a lowblood had said this. His ancestor was alive when the Sufferer was executed. How old was this lowblood? And how had he lived so long? “Hm. So much like him, I can tell you’re much more professional, though. I shall not keep you long, boy. I merely give you a gift on my old friend’s request.” With that, the Chronicler raised his hand. The action caused something on the wall, above the books to shake. From first glance, it appeared to be a trophy sword. The sword flew towards Gazemind, it stopping in his firm grasp. He held it out to Namor.
He felt compelled to grab the sword, keeping his eyes on the elder. While he had a very kind smile, Namor could not shake the rather cautious movements he made, the gripping of the well maintained sword being slow and careful. As it entered his grasp, his eyes were drawn to it. It was old, to say the least, but well made. It was seemingly alien steel, from the features of it. The large guard had similar writings on it as the Chronicler’s arms, although he could not actually tell what they meant this time around. Another odd thing about the blade Namor came to notice was that it exuded a hazy, blue, field around it. It was hard to notice, at first glance.
“His last wish, for it to be given to a worthy wielder. As legacy, I can think of none more worthy.” The door to the candle lit library opened by its self, the Chronicler gesturing for Namor to leave. Throughout this all, he smiled. “I would let you stay and talk, but we shall be arriving in Bartimaeus in a few hours, young Ezara.”
So far from Alternia, Namor felt he had a friend away from the battle. Holstering the blade in the sheath it seemed to come with, he made his way out. At the bottom of the stairs waited one of the small creatures. Once more, it did not speak and simply gestured for the young troll to follow it down the stone halls of the Lion’s Mane.
In a days time, Namor would be in the middle of a war zone.
[[Namor is a Badass and Kyle is a Great Writer, news at 9]]
In any of the roleplays where the characters have no “set love interest/crush”, and in which I play a strong, independent female archetype (either she’s just got an attitude or she’s physically capable, and variations thereof), all of the other female characters have a love interest pursuing them but mine.
It’s really disheartening as a rather outspoken feminist that, at least at the time (this was a few years ago, admittedly), a female who isn’t demure and sweet and kawaii is unappealing.
And of course, any time I did play a meek or demure female character, there’s at least one male love interest.
I think the fact that most of the RPers playing the males are also female. Internal sexism sucks.
I would like to think this is why allisandra is forever alone lol))
Vakena is a brutishly strong, independent and violent woman.
Two love interests straight off the bat~
And that’s even when she breaks her matesprit in half during sex.
I’m preeeeeetty sure that Krauka’s a dick-shredding she-beast, but SHE still gets the bitches flinging themselves after her, doesn’t she?
FUCK Y⇶S, THAT’S WHAT I WAS HOPING TO H⇶AR! PR⇶TTY BOR⇶D OF THIS FUCKING BABY PLAN⇶T ANYWAY, TH⇶R⇶ ISN’T SHIT WORTH DOING AROUND H⇶R⇶.
LOOKING FORWARD TO SOM⇶ GOOD TR⇶NCH COMBAT! MAYB⇶ W⇶’LL G⇶T TO PLAY WITH SOM⇶ OF TH⇶ FUCKING SLICK N⇶W T⇶CH TH⇶Y’V⇶ B⇶⇶N WORKING ON, TOO!
maybe, krauka. i do hope to keep you up to date on the technoloqical side of thinqs. you are, after all, the finest soldier i have laid eyes on.
i’ll stick to my quns, though. and sword.
HAHA, I THINK I’M TH⇶ FIN⇶ST ANYTHING YOU’V⇶ LAID ⇶Y⇶S ON, ⇶ZARA! BUT I FUCKING DIGR⇶SS, WHIL⇶ TH⇶R⇶’S N⇶V⇶R GONNA’ B⇶ A W⇶APON THAT ⇶XISTS THAT I WON’T WANNA’ TAK⇶ FOR A T⇶ST DRIV⇶, AT TH⇶ ⇶ND OF TH⇶ MOTH⇶RFUCKING NIGHT AN AX⇶ IS JUST WHAT I’M MIRTHFULLY M⇶ANT FOR!
AWW, FUCK, NOW I’M ITCHING TO FLY OUT! JUST HAV⇶ TO SIT AROUND AND WAIT FOR OUR D⇶PLOYM⇶NT ORD⇶R TO GO THROUGH.